


some hearts are meant for each other (but not ours)

by saunatonttu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunken sex, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Rodrigue Pines and Lambert is Unfortunately Straight (or very deeply closeted), semi-public making out, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 16:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21323137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunatonttu/pseuds/saunatonttu
Summary: What Rodrigue has always wanted, and what he gets.When the kiss came to an end, simply because they needed to breathe, Lambert’s mouth lingered near and he murmured, words slurring together just the slightest bit, “Won’t you warm my bed tonight, Rodrigue?”
Relationships: Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 24
Kudos: 130





	some hearts are meant for each other (but not ours)

It was a well-known fact of life that grief either brought people together or tore them and their relationships apart at the seams. 

In this case, it was the former: two men that had lost their wives to the plague rampaging the lands of their kingdom now sat in one of Castle Fhirdiad’s parlors drinking wine and reminiscing of better days to cope with such heavy losses. Lambert had asked the guards to leave them alone: after all, he and Rodrigue were old friends, and tonight was a time for catching up and comfort only the oldest friends could give one another.

Lambert was well on his way to inebriety, his strong-lined face flushed pink from the wine. Rodrigue had a very close view of it, sitting so close to the king that it bordered on inappropriate while cradling a glass of his own.

The hearth across the room offered warmth, but Lambert was warmer still. Despite the years that had passed, Rodrigue found himself unable to pull away from it and just as unable to steer his gaze away from the flushed cheeks of the King of Faerghus. 

“Do you still recall our Academy days, friend?” Lambert was saying with his pleasant, low voice, twirling the wine glass with his fingers. But his voice and eyes were tinted with grief even now, and it pained Rodrigue to see that on his friend. “Things were so different back then.”

“I do,” Rodrigue said, a soft smile on his lips even through the heartache he felt on Lambert’s behalf. “I remember you making me skip out on many, many classes…”

“You never said no when I suggested it,” Lambert laughed, and the sound of it wobbled unevenly, roughly. Rodrigue’s chest felt warmer for it, and so he took another sip of his wine to distract himself.

When they got nostalgic like this, ignoring and smothering the feelings deep within himself became a struggle. Rodrigue still remembered himself at Garreg Mach, remembered the rosy fantasies of a young man that had still dared to wish for reality-bending romance. A man that had still yet to realize the importance of duty above all else.

“I could never deny you, my friend,” Rodrigue murmured, dipping his head as he stared down at the knees of his breeches instead. Eyes away from the strong jawline and the blue eyes of Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd. The old heartache loomed so terribly close in times like this, when alcohol threatened to rise to his head.

Lambert’s rough fingertips brushing against his cheek, at his hair, startled Rodrigue into looking up once more, finding Lambert’s eyes squinting gently at him. The fingers tucked the wave strands behind his ear, and pulled back as Lambert threw his arm over the back of the sofa, right behind Rodrigue’s shoulders and neck.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue breathed, and perhaps it was the alcohol’s fault, but Lambert’s gaze on him stirred up an old want he had tried to bury. 

“I remember,” Lambert muttered, “how girls used to fawn over your hair back then.”

Lambert’s body turned to him, closer and warmer than what was appropriate, and he set his glass down on the table before them, beside one of the opened bottles of wine. 

“Even she,” Lambert said lowly, as he placed his hand on Rodrigue’s thigh. The grief in his voice - it was unbearably thick, and Rodrigue’s hand shook as he too put his glass away. 

In the background, fire crackled, barely audible over Rodrigue and Lambert’s laboured breaths.

“I recall just as many gawking you for your strength,” Rodrigue murmured, setting his hand over Lambert’s on his thigh. His laugh came out short, forced. Lambert’s gaze, dimmed by alcohol, made his head spin. “Your wife amongst them.”

“Perhaps I didn’t notice,” Lambert mused, the grief lifting from the way of amusement in his voice. “I was busy looking at you, after all.”

Despite him knowing well that what Lambert meant was not what his heart had once hoped for, Rodrigue’s breath caught in his throat at that, and want rolled in the pit of his stomach. 

Lambert’s hand moved up on his thigh, and Rodrigue’s did nothing to stop it. Instead, it moved to hold onto Lambert’s elbow, fingers curling into the royal tunic.

“You flatter me,” Rodrigue said, voice a touch too husky, too revealing. “I do not believe I was as worthy a sparring partner as you make me out to be.”

Lambert’s eyes bore into his soul, or so it felt like. That was all fine and well, Rodrigue thought distractedly, as long as they didn’t see the rather foolish yearning he had kept locked there all these years. 

“Rodrigue,” Lambert said as he leaned in, eyes burning intense blue, “you were always worthy.”

When their lips met, Rodrigue didn’t resist. Relief washed through him, followed by the want that had been prickling at his senses. It made his mind blank out, the feeling of Lambert’s firm lips on his an intoxicating thing he leaned into.

Too eager, too eager, his mind tried to warn him. As though he were eighteen again, daydreaming of kissing Lambert at the Goddess Tower. 

_ You were always worthy _, he had said, as though the words were more than just an answer to the words spoken aloud. 

Rodrigue knew better than to believe so, and he should have pulled away from Lambert’s touch, away from the rough lips that kissed him like they wanted to devour him. And yet… he made no move to pull away, no move to stop Lambert’s hand from squeezing at his thigh; he allowed it to happen, leaned into Lambert’s kiss like it was salvation for a sinful man.

_ You were always worthy _ burned raw in his mind, and with it rose the want, the desire that had gone unfulfilled for so long. 

“Lambert,” he sighed, muffled by their lips, while his hands found their way onto Lambert, his king, his dear friend, the one person he would give his life for without questions asked. His hands found Lambert’s biceps - firm through the tunic and undershirt - his arm, his neck.

This was his friend, the unbearably oblivious man that had married young and cried too many bitter tears for a marriage that ended too soon.

The man Rodrigue loved fervently, the man his heart and (currently) cock both yearned for.

Lambert pulled away from his lips with a wet noise, but his hands didn’t leave Rodrigue: one still on his thigh, near the curve of his ass, and the other hand moved into his hair, fingers splayed against the back of Rodrigue’s head. 

His face, when Rodrigue opened his eyes to look, was more flushed than before, lips parted and eyes dark from both the wine and, if he read correctly, lust. The sight of it made him shiver and his legs quiver - and so Rodrigue, usually cool-headed, was already too far gone.

When Lambert kissed him again, Rodrigue pulled him closer by his shoulder.

It might have been his imagination, but perhaps Lambert groaned into his mouth at that: a low sound of pleasure that only reverberated briefly on Rodrigue’s lips.

Rodrigue had only ever dreamed of Lambert making sounds like that for him, and in his intoxicated state he wanted more, warning thoughts quickly shoved off as he nipped at Lambert’s lips. 

The noise he got in return sent his heart drumming.

If this was another dream, Goddess, do not wake him. 

Lambert pushed their lips together harder, and along with that contact, he pushed Rodrigue down on the sofa until they were entangled in one another: Lambert on top and Rodrigue’s back on the sofa cushions, one leg tangling off the side.

Lambert’s weight on him did nothing to ease Rodrigue’s hammering heart and the desire pounding through his veins.

A hand cupped the king’s flushed cheek, a thumb moved over heated skin. Half-opened eyes peered at Lambert’s face, the gaze dazed but adoring.

_ You know not how I love you, Lambert _ passed through Rodrigue’s mind, and it was the sweetest song his heart could ever sing. 

When the kiss came to an end, simply because they needed to breathe, Lambert’s mouth lingered near and he murmured, words slurring together just the slightest bit, “Won’t you warm my bed tonight, Rodrigue?”

Lambert’s wine-dimmed gaze pinned Rodrigue to the sofa more effectively than his body’s weight, and Rodrigue’s skin flushed under it. Everything in him trembled at the idea - he remembered: the Queen, her kindness, everything that Lambert had loved about her - but his lips moved on their own, as did his fingers on Lambert’s cheek: “If it is what you wish, Lambert.”

Something pleased crossed Lambert’s expression, through the mud of inebriety and grief, and then he was kissing Rodrigue’s jaw, his cheek, his ear, and Rodrigue sighed his appreciation out loud. 

If this man asked him to bring him the moon, Rodrigue would work out a way to accomplish it. If he requested him for a night to drown his sorrows into, Rodrigue would give him that, though the selfish part of him would take enjoyment in Lambert’s touch, in Lambert’s voice.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue said, voice somehow not trembling, “your chambers.”

“Yes,” Lambert agreed, though reluctant to pull away from him, to release his lips from Rodrigue’s skin. “Right as ever, my friend.”

Still, the short trip to the king’s bed chambers felt much longer than it was as Lambert could _ not _ help himself. He was spontaneous enough when sober, but that quality only worsened with drink. Now it led to Lambert pushing Rodrigue against the castle hallway’s stone wall, against the Faerghus banner, where he kissed him deeply, hands wandering until they sneaked under Rodrigue’s tunic.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue tried to scold him, but Lambert’s knee brushing between his thighs had him forget himself entirely.

Distantly, he wondered if Lambert had ever gotten like this with the late Queen, if he had ever shed all decency and pushed her aside to kiss and touch her -

He shouldn’t allow that question in, should respect the dead more, and yet a part of him felt jealous at the thought of Lambert and his wife indulging themselves like this. The mental image numbed him even as Lambert’s hand pressed over his hipbone, feeling his skin, feeling _ him. _

And the giddy realization that it was not her Lambert was touching -- that was the worst of it, what made him a horrible man, a horrible friend. The _ giddiness _. The terrible joy that Lambert’s mouth found his now, against the Kingdom’s banner, in a hallway that anyone could walk into any moment.

“Lambert,” Rodrigue gasped when Lambert’s lips pressed over his pulse next. Coherent thought was becoming a real challenge with his friend’s touches and his own craving for them. “We should… someone could…”

Gustave was posted somewhere that night, wasn’t he? Rodrigue tried to recall, but Lambert’s laugh against his neck scattered his thoughts again, made his breeches tighten between his legs. 

“You worry too much,” Lambert said, and his knee pressed further in against Rodrigue’s thighs. Rodrigue’s hands, clutching at the other’s tunic, trembled as he bit down on his lip to keep the moan in.

His eighteen-year-old self could not have imagined such a scene in his head, no matter how hard he tried.

“I cannot keep your bed warm if we do not make it there, my f...friend,” Rodrigue slurred when Lambert’s mouth met his, almost ignorant of the eager way he himself pressed against the other’s body.

Somehow _ that _ got through to Lambert, who sighed entirely too dramatically against Rodrigue before pulling away.

“Let us hurry then,” he said, and his blue eyes burned with intensity that would have made Rodrigue nostalgic if he weren’t so aroused.

Goddess, give him strength.

* * *

* * *

In the end, they did make it into Lambert’s bed chambers without running into either servants or knights and embarrassing themselves. Or so they thought.

(It would have been one thing if they were eighteen, but they were nearing their thirties now - responsible adults by anyone’s definition.)

As soon as the broad door shut behind them, Lambert had him against it, his heated lips back to Rodrigue’s neck, his hands back to feeling Rodrigue’s body like they had never touched him before. 

And they hadn’t, not in this way, not before this night. Back when they were young and more carefree, Rodrigue had counted each casual touch, each lingering gaze, and read too much into them until the day Lambert had told him of his engagement with a smile like the sun.

Rodrigue had been more careful then, to not let his touches stay too long.

Now, though, that caution was tossed aside as his hands alternated between pulling Lambert closer and feeling the contours and dips of the body pressing against his so firmly. Caution was the last thing on his mind as he pushed his hips against Lambert’s and relished in the press of Lambert’s hardness against his own.

Even if it wasn’t him on Lambert’s mind, it was his body Lambert’s reacted to.

Even if Lambert murmured the wrong name against his neck sometimes, it was still - 

“Lambert,” Rodrigue breathed, “the bed.”

They disrobed themselves as gracefully as two drunken men close to their thirties possibly could, and both of them nearly tripped on their way at least once. But they made it to the wide bed, blissfully naked, and Rodrigue’s body thrummed with desire as he pulled Lambert down with him, _ on _ him.

It wasn’t right, a part of him still recognized. But it was far too late to stop when Lambert was on him, both of them hard and wanting.

Years of suppressed emotion and want were difficult to hold back, though Rodrigue’s second name might as well have been “self-control” instead of Achille. But alcohol wore inhibitions down, and combined with his friend’s grief - stronger men than him had surely succumbed, too.

And so Rodrigue let himself touch Lambert still, allowed his hands to worship the scarred body above his. The tremble in the other man’s frame pleased him as much as Lambert’s touch on him, and Rodrigue closed his eyes as warm lips covered his once more. 

Like this, his mind allowed the illusion that Lambert had wanted him all along. 

(Like this, he could pretend they weren’t where Lambert had bedded his wife, ultimately conceiving an heir.)

Their cocks rubbed against each other, and pulled out a sound out of Rodrigue that sounded foreign even to his own ears. A low, pleasured moan. He had never sought pleasure with his own wife, only fulfilled the task with due diligence, so this - this was -

Lambert’s breath huffed against his mouth. “I didn’t know you could sound like that,” he said, voice strained, “Rodrigue.”

_ You have always had me like this _ , Rodrigue thought distantly. _ You just didn’t know, Lambert. _

Would this change anything between them, afterwards? Even in his drunken haze, even as Lambert’s hard cock rubbed against his, he knew it wouldn’t. 

It didn’t matter now, anyway. For this moment, their positions and Lambert’s attractions (or lack thereof) did not matter.

Lambert reached for something from the nightstand beside the bed. 

“Oil should work for this, as well,” Lambert muttered, and Rodrigue’s throat constricted as the memories of days that ought to have been forgotten came to him.

Of him shoving fingers inside himself, mouth stuffed with a cloth to keep himself quiet --

“As well?” Rodrigue murmured, distracted.

“She and I, we-”

Rodrigue pulled Lambert back down, kissing him harder than he had so far. 

“Never mind that,” he said, not wishing for more unpleasant imagery of Lambert and his queen to trickle into his mind. “Go on, Lambert.”

He could not help the inflection of adoration at his friend’s, the king’s, name. But it would so easy to pass it off as _ friendship _. Lambert didn’t seem to notice it anyway, his hands busy with the bottle of oil and his lips tracing the curve of Rodrigue’s jaw, sucking at the skin and pulling more sighs out of him.

The nips at his jaw could hardly distract him from the moment Lambert’s oil-coated finger slid into him with the grace of an inexperienced thief breaking into a home. Rodrigue wheezed, but one finger was not so bad and certainly not enough to draw his attention away from the rest of Lambert and the feel of him.

One hand clutching at the blanket, Rodrigue’s other hand guided Lambert’s head up for their lips to connect again. Even now, even with Lambert’s finger moving inside him and their erections tangled together, slotting their mouths together had Rodrigue’s mind melt away. 

It must be a dream: the way Lambert’s tongue pressed flat against Rodrigue’s couldn’t be more than a fantasy, a fever dream.

It must be a dream, an excruciatingly vivid one like the dreams of his youth: Lambert moaning his name against his mouth sent an electrifying spike of pleasure through Rodrigue, it had him quiver and his thighs tremble against Lambert’s. 

“Lambert,” he gasped when the kiss broke, leaving only ragged breaths between their mouths.

The second finger went in; Lambert had always been attentive of his friend, and he remained so in this situation, too, though his efforts were clumsy and drunken variety of careless.

The rough entry of the finger had Rodrigue hissing, squeezing around Lambert, but his head soon dropped back against the blankets and the mattress as a moan tore through his throat. Loud, wanton, without any of the usual restraint Rodrigue held himself with.

Lambert groaned with him, and the sound went straight through Rodrigue and to his cock. It encouraged him to move himself against Lambert’s fingers, to sigh his want out for Lambert to hear. 

The third finger entered, and Rodrigue’s mind blanked out once more as he clung to Lambert’s neck and shoulder with both of his hands. The sting of three fingers barely registered, and Rodrigue’s back arched as they curled within him, pulling out loud gasps from him that fanned Lambert’s face, strained from concentration and flushed from the combination of effort, wine, and desire.

Handsome, both in body and in spirit.

Rodrigue leaned up. Lambert’s eyes softened - a heart skipped a beat - and he closed the distance. 

It was too easy to allow himself the pleasure of thinking Lambert felt the same way, and Rodrigue’s mind wasn’t capable of disputing it with logic. Not when Lambert’s fingers and gaze rendered him more useless than wine ever could. Not when Lambert’s lips moved on his, the rhythm perfectly clumsy, just the way Rodrigue had always imagined it.

Rodrigue’s fingers found the line of Lambert’s hair on his neck and stayed there, trembling as the fingers inside him plunged deep, deeper than Rodrigue’s ever had in the few nights he had allowed himself the time to fantasize, to yearn for something that duty kept out of his reach.

“Lambert,” he choked when his friend’s (his everything’s) lips moved away, “I - you may -”

“Are you sure-” The vague concern in Lambert’s voice was as dizzying as everything else, and Rodrigue’s heart leapt. Eager, hopeless. Wishful.

“Of course,” Rodrigue said, voice hushed, and his hand stroked Lambert’s neck, soothing despite the not at all concealed want. Need. It was hard to tell which, anymore. Still, Rodrigue continued, sweaty forehead bumping against Lambert’s and two pairs of eyes making contact. “I trust you, Lambert.”

Blue eyes blinked, the corners crinkling with a breathless smile, and then the fingers plopped out of him as though they had never been there in the first place. Lambert’s body rose again to reach for the oil, but Rodrigue’s hand stayed behind his neck, following Lambert’s rise until they were both sitting up. 

Fire crackled in the hearth of the king’s chambers, barely audible over Rodrigue’s labored breathing and the unsteady beat of his heart as he watched Lambert pick up the bottle of oil. Before Lambert’s fingers could open it, Rodrigue’s hand pressed over Lambert’s wrist, halting him.

“Allow me,” he said at the curious look on his friend’s face. Lambert allowed this, of course, ever the generous one, and Rodrigue’s chest tightened as he took the bottle, tilting it until cold oil dripped to his palm. Spreading it further on his hand with his thumb, Rodrigue watched Lambert, whose hand now cupped the back of Rodrigue’s head. Fingers threading into sweat-dampened hair. Blue eyes intense. 

“You are so good to me, my friend,” he said, and what a thing it was to hear in this context. Rodrigue’s stomach rolled in pleasure at the words, and once more his world narrowed to only Lambert, his face, his voice, the hand cradling Rodrigue’s neck.

“As you are to me, Lambert,” he murmured as he wrapped his fingers around Lambert’s erection, enjoying the way Lambert jumped at the cold touch. Rodrigue’s own went without attention, straining and aching now that Lambert’s didn’t rub against it.

He rubbed the oil on Lambert firmly, thoroughly, and Lambert breathed heavily through the ministrations, his forehead falling upon Rodrigue’s. “I need you,” he whispered, and the sound of it could have broken Rodrigue’s heart.

“I am here,” he said. Soft, tender. More raw than intended. “I always am, Lambert. You have me.”

In more ways than Lambert would ever want him. Rodrigue ignored that thought, eyes half-lidded as he rubbed his palm up Lambert’s cock to spread the oil, shivering in tandem with Lambert.

“That’s enough,” Lambert said, the hand not on Rodrigue’s neck pushing the hand away from his cock. Rodrigue put the oil back on the nightstand, allowed himself to be pushed down and his legs be spread wider and lifted.

He could not bring himself to close his eyes: Lambert’s concentrated expression was too much to look away from, and a sight his mind would recall at most unfortunate moments possible for years to come.

The initial push of Lambert’s cock into him nearly had Rodrigue closing his eyes, but through clenched jaw and newly forming droplets of sweat around his face, he managed to keep them open and his gaze on Lambert. His hand had gone back behind his friend’s neck, fingers teasing the hairline there. Now, those fingers curled, seeking support.

Lambert inhaled, the sound sharp in the king’s chambers. “Tight,” he managed to say, his gaze flicking up to Rodrigue’s eyes. His words faltered as they came, mild worry mixed with the baser want of just shoving himself in, “Are you - should I -”

Rodrigue’s fingers splayed against his neck, and a fond smile spread over his mouth despite the decidedly crowded feeling. “Keep going,” he said, words slightly strangled but lucid all the same. His fingers stroked over Lambert’s pulse. “I trust you.”

_ I love you _ was what he meant but he wasn’t allowed to say that, no matter how drunk on wine and pleasure he was. 

Lambert’s cock pushed deeper then, and a sound wheezed past Rodrigue’s lips. A half-choked moan. His legs trembled in Lambert’s hold. Blue eyes stared into his, their pull too strong to ignore. 

Goddess, Rodrigue had wanted - for so long, he had - and while he wouldn’t take back the time with his late wife, the two beautiful children she’d gifted him - even so, he -

“You know, like this,” Lambert breathed out, like a thoughtless ramble, “you look - breathtaking, Rod - almost like-”

Rodrigue’s short-cut nails dug into the back of Lambert’s neck. It cut off the words, leaving only labored breathing in its wake.

He knew what Lambert had been close to saying.

Those words - he didn’t want them. 

Lambert was never intentionally cruel, but unintentional cruelty could cut just as deep, leave behind as many wounds. Rodrigue wasn’t quite at that level of masochism where he would have thrived off on that.

Not quite, not yet.

Instead, Rodrigue pulled Lambert in for a kiss, and this time he closed his eyes and focused only in the feeling of bliss and the slightly uncomfortable stretching within himself. The novelty of kissing Lambert would never get the chance to wear off, and Rodrigue pressed into those lips, desperate to at least silence any words that could cut him open in this state.

The pretense needed to last a little longer.

The kiss broke off the moment Lambert was as fully sheathed in Rodrigue as he could be: both of them groaning at the feelings, Rodrigue’s hands scampering to hold onto Lambert _ tighter _. The feeling was strange, being filled this way and this much, but the storm of pleasure was yet to calm down in the slightest within him.

“Rod,” Lambert moaned against his mouth, and sharp, prickling sensation spread through the backs of Rodrigue’s thighs where Lambert’s nails dug in. Between them, Rodrigue’s cock stood, untouched and aching, but Rodrigue could not bring himself to let go of Lambert and so his erection hung there, as a testament to what Lambert could do to him.

“Rod,” Lambert repeated, a nickname from old times uttered like a love confession. “Can I -?”

As though Rodrigue would ever deny Lambert anything he requested of him. 

“Yes,” Rodrigue murmured, and there was no hiding the way his voice melted into a tone he had never quite gotten right with his wife. His hand twitched against Lambert’s shoulder blade, where a deep scar ran. A scar that once was a wound Rodrigue had healed. A deep breath, a hoarse whisper against kiss-bruised lips, “Go ahead, Lambert.”

Rodrigue had once been a romantic, much like Lambert still was. At the cusp of adulthood, at eighteen years of age, he had often daydreamed of eloping with his dear friend, leaving Faerghus to Rufus and simply traveling the lands, protecting people while loving one another at the same time.

The daydreams had been pretty, rose-colored with the hopefulness of a young adult. Foolishness, really. Blind to the political reality of both their positions, blind to what Lambert himself wanted.

He had dreamed of kissing Lambert beneath the starry skies of Gautier territory, had waxed poetry of it in the far recesses of his mind every time Lambert’s mouth curved into that mischievous grin he wore each time he suggested skipping class for lance training or a trip to the town near Garreg Mach. 

But Lambert had gotten engaged so fast after the Academy, and married within the year of the announcement. 

(And so those dreams shattered - pieces of them stuck deep in the muscle of Rodrigue’s still beating heart.)

Always swift with his decisions, especially when it came to the matters of heart. Rodrigue had found it admirable, if not also worrisome - his own feelings aside, that quality of Lambert’s left him too open for heartbreak, too unguarded against the messes that came with love and marriage. 

Her death at the hands of the plague had nearly destroyed him. It still was destroying him. 

Rodrigue wished to ease that pain, even while indulging a selfish desire of his.

_ I am here, _ he had told Lambert. _ You have me. _

Now in more concrete manner than ever, as Lambert shifted his weight upon Rodrigue before thrusting in properly. It had Rodrigue’s world narrow down further, until it consisted only of Lambert’s ragged breath mingling with his own, Lambert’s hips rocking against his, and the need to be close, the racing heartbeat in his chest that sung Lambert’s name.

He could not afford to be the romantic he had once been, but his heart remained the same, stubbornly so.

_ Devoted_, they called him. 

_ Painfully in love _ was more accurate.

With Lambert’s next thrust, he cried out, toes curling somewhere near the small of Lambert’s back where his heels dug into sweaty skin. Lambert’s breath hitched, affected, before kissing him again, stealing what remaining sense Rodrigue had left.

“Rod,” Lambert moaned against his mouth, and the sound of it shook Rodrigue, a sudden flicker of a memory on his mind — 

_ “Rod,” Lambert had said, a mischievous smile on his lips, and only Goddess knew how Rodrigue wished to press his lips upon them — _

— and Rodrigue pressed himself on those lips, relieved to be able to after all this time, even as he had done so numerous times tonight already. His fingertips must be bruising Lambert’s back, yet the other made no complaint, only licked at Rodrigue’s lips as he rocked harder into him, flashes of pleasure following like a whiplash. 

Rodrigue returned it as good as he got, chasing more for Lambert’s satisfaction than his own, though he could not deny how sweet it felt to have his king and friend groaning his name this way instead of the Queen’s.

How it sent his mind reeling, his body shivering.

_ I am here - I am here, Lambert - always have been, always will, won’t you look at me - _

Lambert’s mouth on his kept the words from coming, and perhaps that was for the better. Even though he wanted Lambert to know. Even though he wanted to be able to hold Lambert’s face in the morning and kiss him sweetly, without hurry and worry.

A thrust slamming into _ just _ the right spot broke through Rodrigue’s already shattered mind, and had his head roll back and break the kiss as he moaned his appreciation while his untouched cock pressed against Lambert’s stomach and pulsed with need long left unfulfilled.

“_Oh_, Lambert,” he was babbling now that his mouth was free, “I am... Lambert… I…”

“Rodrigue-” And, Goddess, Lambert’s voice had never sounded so raw in his presence, never so thick with want, never as desperate as it did now - 

Without Lambert’s hands once touching his cock, Rodrigue came harder than he ever had in his life. It should be shameful that his king could elicit such reactions from him when his wife hadn’t; it should be shameful, and yet Rodrigue would never find it such. Only regretful.

Lambert didn’t stop, unusually unmindful. Rodrigue didn’t mind it, even through the haze of it all; his fingers curled in the blond strands of hair soaked in sweat and pulled, until their foreheads met again and breaths mingled until it became difficult to distinguish one from the other.

It didn’t take long. Rodrigue shivered with Lambert through the orgasm, hyper aware of both the seed dribbling into him and Lambert’s labored breaths against his face when Lambert’s hips finally paused, when fingers finally ceased clawing into Rodrigue’s thighs.

In eighteen-year-old Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius’ daydreams, the night would have ended with a kiss sweeter than any nectar, with whispered love confessions from one mouth to another.

There would have been fingers on Rodrigue’s chin, lifting his gaze up so that Lambert could see his eyes when asking if he was alright. Lambert’s bright blue would have found Rodrigue’s dimmer gaze, and connected, and Rodrigue would have smiled and assured him he was just fine before leaning in to kiss Lambert, who would have laughed - 

They would have fallen asleep curled together, blissed out and in love, without life’s responsibilities ruining any of it.

In reality, there wasn’t any of that: only vague attempt at cleaning themselves but ultimately failing as sleep knocked them out as surely as falling from a horse and hitting one’s head would have. 

In reality, they had both been drunk, and only one of them would even remember this night. 

(It would not be Lambert.)

* * *

* * *

“These things happen,” Lambert said, and in the silence of the royal chambers, his voice was unnaturally loud. Rodrigue’s head ached, and he closed his eyes as he pulled his own breeches back on. His foolish hands trembled as they did so, but Lambert’s back was turned on him, and so it didn’t matter.

“Accidents,” Lambert clarified, voice grim. Rodrigue’s heart ached, this time. “They do not have to change anything.”

“Yes,” Rodrigue agreed, and his voice was even, if a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat, the sound of it too loud in the silence of the chambers. His eyes remained closed. Dry. “You are right, of course.”

And yet, his heart pounded in his ears.

Lambert’s hand reached out and landed tentatively on his shoulder. Rodrigue did not turn to look at his friend, knowing the concern that must be written all over his face. 

“Rodrigue,” Lambert said, in such a different tone than last night. Weighed down. Regretful. More precisely than any blade, it cut. “I am - sorry. I have used -”

Rodrigue squeezed the hand on his shoulder once. Twice. Looked over to Lambert and the wrinkle between his brows, smiling. “Say no more, old friend. There is no need.”

Rodrigue was the one at fault for getting caught up in Lambert, in wine, without considering the aftermath. Of course Lambert wouldn’t be contented, of course Lambert wouldn’t suddenly realize something new - Rodrigue turned his head away before his smile turned wobbly, hesitant.

The way Lambert had said his name — his nickname from the past, from warmer days — still rang in his ears. Would he ever get rid of its sound? 

He knew not, but. Telling that to Lambert would be useless now, when Rodrigue knew whose name it was Lambert had called upon his orgasm instead of his. 

Lambert’s eyes still burned on his neck. “You are sure?”

“Have I ever lied to you?” 

The breath Lambert released was one of relief. “You have not.”

Rodrigue’s smile softened, turned genuine despite the ache beneath his ribs. “Then believe me now, too.”

They dressed in silence, but this time it was far less oppressing. Once done, Rodrigue climbed to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain rising up his spine and the aches of his thighs, and turned to Lambert, also fully dressed.

They were both spectacular messes, even now, but nothing an early training session could not explain away. Castle Fhirdiad had many secret passages for easy travel, after all, and no one knew them all. Some must lead to the training grounds.

“Rodrigue,” Lambert began, a contemplative look on his weary face. “You said there was no need, but -” His hand fell heavily on Rodrigue’s shoulder once more, squeezing. Safe, not at all intimate gesture. Blue eyes studied Rodrigue’s face too closely, too keenly. “- I must make it up to you, my friend.”

Rodrigue’s hand found Lambert’s elbow, where the fabric of the royal blue tunic crumpled, and squeezed. “You only need to find peace for yourself,” he said, lips threatening to stumble out Lambert’s name before he settled for, “Your Majesty.”

Lambert’s eyes reflected a flicker of hurt at that, but his lips curled into a soft smile. “You are ever so good to me, friend. Where would I be without you?”

“We will never know,” Rodrigue said with a genuine laugh that crackled in places. With a bow that was perhaps too short-lived to be polite when directed to a king, Rodrigue murmured, “Now I must return to my own chambers to freshen up before breakfast, Your Majesty.”

Lambert laughed with him, pulling his hand back. “I suppose I must allow you to, then.”

And that was it, then: Rodrigue walked out of the chamber with as much dignity as one did after a drunken one-night stand with a man that wished for a different person altogether. His heart might not be as whole as it was when he went into the chamber the previous night, but it was not so shattered his life wouldn’t go on.

This was how things were. The only way things were allowed to be. 

If Rodrigue’s eyes stung on his way to his own chambers in the castle, meant only for the duration of his stays, that was easy enough to pass off as exhaustion combined with hangover. 

Nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

* * *

Two months from that, long after Rodrigue had returned to Fraldarius, he received a personal letter from Lambert. Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance: they exchanged both formal and informal letters all the time.

The contents of this one, well.

_ I have met someone, _ the letter began. _ Her name is Patricia. _

Lambert was, for better or for worse, always riding wherever his heart wished to go. 

_ I may be in love again, my friend, _ Lambert concluded at the end, and Rodrigue’s expression faltered as it had on that morning in the royal bed chambers. This time, however, he was safe in his own, and so he could afford a moment of gloom, the prick in his heart.

This was how things would have to be. 

Lambert had the right to happiness. Rodrigue had no right to claim it for his own. 

A soft but insistent knock from the door had Rodrigue closing the envelope and putting it into the drawer of his desk before clearing his throat and saying a soft “come in”. 

It was Glenn, with a practice sword in his hand and a gaze too penetrating for a child his age. Behind him stood Felix, thumb stuck on his mouth, and eyes watery as he held his brother’s hand. Glenn said, “Father, you promised to help with my sword practice.”

That was right. Glenn’s usual instructor was away.

Rodrigue’s face softened. “I will be right there, Glenn. Take Felix back to-“

Felix made an indignant sound, muffled by his thumb, and his hand clung to Glenn tighter. His mother’s eyes stared up at Rodrigue, and how could he do anything but sigh? (Guilt came back, as it often did.) “Very well, Felix, you’ll come too.”

And later, as he held Felix on his arm while instructing Glenn on his posture and the swing of his sword, Rodrigue knew he could be worse off. 

A little heartache wouldn’t kill him. 

And if, some months later at Lambert’s wedding, someone were to clap his shoulder jovially and joke about “it being a time to find yourself a new one”, Rodrigue would be able to tell them he wasn’t so bad off, not so quick to love as the Kingdom’s beloved king was.

He would be able to tell them seeing Lambert happy was a happiness of its own to him.

**Author's Note:**

> me: I'm not posting anything explicit here again  
this fic: (happened)
> 
> Thanks for reading!!! I have. an unfortunate thing for onesided Lambert/Rodrigue. It shows.


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